“Does anyone else think it’s weird that…

Both Gurinder and Bennet Jr got hurt in exactly the right ways to be placed directly into the captain’s new drone program immediately after getting seriously injured?” Drawls the very drunk interim supply clerk and dock worker Norman Chan a little too loudly. His friends at the hip high bar table all look at Norm sideways over their drinks. “Not this again!” The chorus goes up from the group around Norm. “Come on man, we leave port tomorrow afternoon, let’s just get drunk, fuck and forget about shit for a few hours, man! Just let it go. People are starting to stare.” Slurs a particularly drunk Bennet Sr. His hair a messy tussle of greasy grey. “He’s my son – right? Right. So, so… I’m just glad they had the spinal column haptics that gives him full mobility again ok. That container mishap crushed a good portion of his back. He could, he, he could have died man. Be happy he isn’t dead!” Shouts Bennet Sr over the din of the music blaring in the crowded bar. “I know, I know!” Norm waves his hands, palms out. “It just seems suspicious is all I’m saying.” Norm takes another long pull from his mixed drink. Bennet Sr leans over to rest on his shoulder and says. “Oh hey, that smells good, what is that Norman?” He slurs cheerily, his momentary lapse of melancholy driven away by drink. “Sex on the beach.” Norm says. “What!?!” Shouts back Bennet Sr. “I said Sex on The Beach!” Norman bellows, just as the music goes quiet waiting for the beat to drop. A huge portion of the crowd turns to look at the now flushed and thoroughly embarrassed Norman. The beat comes crashing back in and the crowd cheers! “YEAH!” Norman turns away from his group of friends and winds his way through the packed dance floor of the bar, away from the bar top he was using to steady himself between drinks. Working his way back towards the men’s room at the farthest reaches of the narrow room. The long interior wall is one long bar with mirrors behind it making you feel like the space was wider than it was, in the middle were lengths of bar top between pillars and a few free standing tables, mostly faux wood finishes dominated the bar. Then a walk way, and several day bed like couches under the floor to ceiling cement glass windows that looked out into space. But now caught the glinting sight of the Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial Base where the Jolene Roger was docked for Resupply before shipping out to Pluto for an offensive against the Insurgency, and their black ops base stationed at UB313. Passing by the hot and sweaty crowd Norman fails to notice as a few heads turn to follow him as he walks through the crowd. The three men in a triangle formation watch as Norman walks between them and on to the toilets at the back of the room. The smallest of the three watchers types quickly on his wrist communicator without looking down at it. He is smiling and being social with a few women at his slab of the bar. Within moments the three gentleman get a return notification, and slowly they peel away from their gatherings and walk nonchalantly to the men’s room.

Norman passes the last part of the bar and reaches up to grasp the pillar just out away from the wall before nearly falling over a drunk woman legs. How he missed the bright pink tutu is anybody’s guess. Leaning down, gingerly he asks if the young woman needs any help regaining her feet. Instead she pulls him head first by his collar into the space where the pillar meets the floor and he blacks out. Crawling onto Norman’s body she begins to writhe around and shriek incoherently. The gathered crowd turns their backs in an attempt to ignore the weird behavior. With the crew on edge with war looming nobody is willing to get in the middle of anyone’s business tonight. A brief moment later and three men bolt into the bathroom locking the doors behind them. Their shouts, and the sounds of gun shots are muffled by the music and the heavy doors. From the floor the woman rolls of Norman, and fireman carries him out of the club. No one gives them a second look.

Several paces outside the bar the woman sets Norman’s unconscious body against the wall to slump into a crumple of limbs. She removes her dark wig to reveal her bright green, close cropped hair. Ditching her ruffled tutu, and knee high boots and stockings to unfurl her brown jumpsuit that was tied off at the waist and appear like an on duty custodial staff member. She pulls a cleaning cart out of a hidden compartment in the hallway wall and pushes Norman’s body into the over-sized garbage bin. She proceeds to take him down into the sanitation decks well below.

Part Thirty Three : Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

Auditory hallucinations and why I can guess when my phone will ping with a notification.

Also included are phantom buzzing from my leg pocket, feeling as though I have wet knee caps, and a physical tick on the soles of my heels that fluctuate randomly between themselves – repeatedly. Though I can miss a phone call quite easily, I do always have a sense regarding notifications and emails, for one reason or another. Strange. Very strange sensation.

So how if your Tuesday going? We have officially broken into Spring, so either heavy rains, sub zero temperatures or snow are on the horizon for us to enjoy. Rain can wait until April, but I’d rather not do the whole shovel, live with, and then the slushy melting sequence of snow either. We can handle bursts of cool to cold wind, but let’s keep the precipitation to a minimum for right now ok? Ok!

That time shift huh? Ugh. Hate it. But I will say this, having a later sunset is rather pleasant. Makes the kids not want to go to bed, but after nine days off with March Break, they could do with having a schedule, and heavy physical activity running around with their friends. The spring break really let us ignore the time change for the better part of a week, but it came calling in full effect on Monday, believe you me. It didn’t seem to bother the kids much though, which is a nice touch.

Yesterday flew by! Maybe that was just my experience of the first monday back after the break, but holy cow! It zoomed by.

Brain my fried – yesterday,

By writing two new installments of my interconnected series, and it gave me panicked and jumbled dreams, so going to tread lightly today. To quote Homer Simpson “I hope I didn’t brain my damage.” Ha. Sure felt like it late last night, but that could have been residual funnel cake coursing through my veins after a late evening out with the kids watching fireworks in the drizzling rain and fog.

Take it easy on this lazy Sunday-Funday.

“I have some… interesting news.”

Commanding Officer Monica Gonzalez says to her captain. The captain, a stern looking woman of about fifty years of age. Her hair a closely cropped buzz cut on one side of her part, and jaw length grey bob on the other. “Do tell.” Yawns the captain from her chair in the officers lounge. “The admiral responded, well, no. Not responded. He sent us a message that came in thirty hours after we sent out ours.” Quips the CO. “Like two ships passing in the night.” Barks the captain with a slight hiccup. Her brandy sloshing around in her snifter, the ice cubes clinking with the motion. “Yes, just so. He needs us to activate the Jackal Protocol. I assume you know what that means? I looked in the hand book, and through our active duty archives but came up with nothing.” Shrugs Gonzalez. With a blank stare the captain has gone motionless, and the pink flush of the alcohol slowly gives way to an ashen green grey colour. “Did he now.” A long pregnant pause follows, as the chatter of the lounge falls in to fill the silence between them at their private table. After a few deep breaths the captain toggles her wrist communicator down to medical and cycles through some tabs and alternate screens that Gonzalez had never seen before. “Meet me in the aft cargo hold at 0:200 hours, and bring coffee, and protein bars, lots of it too.” Standing up abruptly the captain nearly runs for the door to her private office aboard the bridge. “But why ma’am” Gonzalez asks stunned. “The admiral has just lost confidence in the integrated Fire Teams and his Nanotech boosted walking Tankers. We need to get my pet project off the ground and fully operational – now!” The shout from the usually stone cold captain brings the rest of the officers in the lounge up short. Eyes wander between the captain and the CO, blank looks on their faces during the seemingly heated exchange. With a flurry the captain exits the room, and the CO heads down to the commissary to gather the required food stuffs.

“Jes-us fuck-ing Key-rist! What happened to you out there today Gurinder?” Exclaims a bed ridden man in the med bay. Gurinder, a solidly built man of about forty says “I was de-gloved, if you can fucking believe it. Don’t look that up by the way.” He snarls. “How did that happen?” The bed ridden man says. “I’m always so careful, so fucking careful. The CO even told us repeatedly how dangerous resupply can be here at Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial Base, and I still got frostbite during the transfer of the LOX, that I went directly to the baths afterwards in shock – apparently, to soak the bone chilling cold out of me. I got turned around in the process and tried to thaw my hands in a plasma stream, and scalded them instead. Sloughed the skin off in one bubbling mass of wet tissue. The frostbite had killed the nerves so I didn’t notice until I dropped both of my hands into the pool.” Gurinder drawls looking down at his feet in the infirmary. “Bright side is, the doctors said I could try those swanky new haptic gloves. You know the ones we all had to try on before shipping out?” Says Gurinder. “Yeah – yeah, the ones that were always too fucking tight.” Offers the bed ridden man. “Yeah, second skin, what they called it. Turns out once you lose your first skin they fit like a charm. But putting them on.” Gurinder pauses here, for a lengthy bit of awed silence. “Not uh, not fun. Leave it at that. But check it out, no seams. The Nanotech integration filled in the gaps and I can touch and feel again. Also, I might add, no nerve pain.” He grins dopishly. “Noice!” Whoops the man from his bed. “So what do they do?” Replies the man from his bed. “I’m actually en route to the testing facility in the aft of the ship. I knew the Jolene Roger had something up her skirt for us in this fight!” Bellows Gurinder. “Keep it down out there!” Shouted an orderly. “We’ve got an influx of wounded people in here.” The orderly shrieks again. “It’s the worst one day record for onsite injuries ever!” Shouted the orderly to the whole room. “What the fuck is going on here today?” A med tech barks in retort.

“You’re not going to like this Gonzalez, but drastic times calls for drastic measures. I need these haptic nerve drones manned, and I couldn’t wait for specimens, so I took some extraordinary steps.” The captain crooned in a melodic whisper. “A couple of manufactured accidents here and there, one or two key personnel have their equipment tampered with, and a few happy coincidences due to the planned misfortune of others.” The captain chuckles warmly. “Chin up. The admiral needs results, The Company needs results, and my Bison drones are going to lead the way. Don’t worry, no one suspects you of anything, and your name isn’t even associated with my patented Bison drones. Look, here come the first batch of pilots now.” Pointing down along the enormous cargo hold to the group of men and women filtering into the huge space as a clump. All in all about fifteen people, some with dark metallic hands, and others with long black snakes running the length of their spines. After a few minutes the crowd had walked the full length of the room to stand infront of the captain and CO Gonzalez. Standing in a semi circle near a grouping of med pod suspension tanks. The captain clears her throat and steps away from CO Gonzalez and addresses the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen welcome. You are looking at your new home for the foreseeable future. Over the next ten days you will be fully immersed in running your new Bison drones to get up to fighting speed. So, without further ado, find a suitable tank. Haptic gloves in the standing tanks, and spinal columns into the ones laying down please. No need to talk. You’ll understand soon enough. The subconscious training will teach you everything you need to know, and once you all pass the training, you’ll be able to watch your Bison drones from the safety of our newest war room. Quick – quick. Hop in. Time is wasting people.” The captain’s smile fades quickly as the gathered group doesn’t move. “Get in the fucking tanks before I float you all out of the cargo airlock.” She barks. There is a series of squeaks and scrapes as the gathered wounded climb half heartedly into their icy cold suspension tanks. The clunks of the safety seals locking into place echoes in the cavernous room.

Walking back to her spot near the center of the tanks, the captain hits a series of buttons and watches the group begin the first moments of their ten days of subconscious training. CO Gonzales stands at attention beside the captain, her mind racing, her stomach doing flips.

Part Thirty Two: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Did you pass along the request to Admiral Garneau?”

Asks the formally dressed captain of the Jolene Roger without looking up from her computer screen. Tapping away quickly, the clicking a loud steady beat in the silence of the stately ready room just off of the bridge. “Yes – ma’am. I put in our request to stop off at the Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial Base for resupply, and to pick up a few new crew members. It was flagged to your attention as an Omega level code Orange personnel transfer for one person in particular. A Ghost crew member, not sure of the name though, as it wasn’t listed in the memo.” Responds the commanding officer firmly. “Yeah – I saw that too. Strange timing. But then again, none of us are privy to the admirals thinking on the matter of war, or the timing of it being advantageous for all parties concerned. We were scheduled to resupply smack dab in the middle of this scrum, so I felt pushing that ahead, and only being six days late for the flotilla rendezvous was acceptable, to me at least. By the time Admiral Garneau signs off on it, and responds we’ll be away from port, and enroute.” A shuffling of papers and the click of a pen. The soft whir of the air scrubbers can be heard purring quietly in the sound proofed office. The captain leans back in her chair to look at her CO. “The Ghost Crew is most unexpected. I didn’t realize we rated one, being the smallest of the vessels heading to battle.” Quips the stern featured captain. “You are correct ma’am, we don’t rate one. He’s to be taken over to the Righteous Chord or any other massive Erlon class battle ship in the fleet. We can’t keep him, I’m afraid.” Answers the CO somberly. “Be that as it may, we can still use – him? Was it. Yes. Nameless as far as I’m concerned. Feed him, get him settled, and then run him through our highest priority matters before we get into position with the rest of the fleet. We’ve got the next nine weeks before we make ‘landfall’ at UB313, so make the best of it please. I trust you and engineering can put together a comprehensive list of tasks he can accomplish given the time crunch, and the impending battle. Lord knows what that fucking doctor has planned. I shudder to think about it.” The captain grimaces, and a slight shiver makes her quiver in her seat. With a flush of goose flesh herself the CO says. “Ugh! Right? If you’re done with those forms I can take them down with me to HR, on my way by the engineering decks.” Says the CO. “Did you perchance pass a rather fat fellow on the way in here? If you see him, send him in.” The captain extends her arm out with some papers clutched in her left hand to the CO. “Yes, I did in fact see him. I think the quat sanitizer we use in the air is giving him grief, as he looked terrible. Common trait among those not used to long haul vessel life. He must be a grounder from Earth proper or Mars.” With a look of disgust the captain says. “Thanks, I’ll take the note under advisement. No hand shakes, and I’ll keep my distance. As you were Austenmire.” Smirks the captain. “Don’t do that ma’am, my older sister is CO Austenmire. I prefer Gonzalez, after my mother – ma’am”. With a chuckle the captain rights her clothes before sitting down again. “Yes – right. Gonzalez then. By my leave.” With a soft ping the doors to the ready room whoosh open and CO Gonzalez leaves soundlessly.

“Hey Gonzalez, what’s hanging ba-bee!” Shouts a grey, hunched older man covered from head to toe in a thick inky grease. Strewn around him are the disassembled parts of a SIP hydroptic-6 jib borer. “Jesus Bennet, respect the rank, you silly toothless old fuck!” She barks tapping the stripes on her shoulder, and then the prominent emblems on her collar. “Yeah – yeah, baby doll. Once you get me some help round here, I’ll show you the respect you deserve.” He rasps like a heavy smoker, with half his throat a cancerous sore. “As a matter of fact, we’ll have a Ghost Crew member for nine weeks, so I need a prioritized list of doable jobs in my inbox asafp!” Gonzalez shouts over the din of the machinery running beside the old man Bennet. The old borer making a hell of a racket in the background. “Sounds like you have a serious chatter issue with that line borer Bennet. You might need a bigger collar, or thicker tooling.” He shouts back. “That’s my girl!” The toothless grin spreads even wider on the dirty old man’s face.

Walking further through the small engineering decks Gonzalez stops to talk with a few other high ranking engineers and technicians, trying to get a sense of how much work they can safely cram into the nine weeks they have with the Ghost before reaching the rendezvous point in system. Likely less time than that, as they have to let him transfer to another vessel prior to reaching battle stations, and active combat duty. Taking her time to make some small talk, and get an inside tack on the largest of the priority projects, she stands idle, and watches the machine shop in full swing. “What’s Bennet’s deal, you don’t look short staffed here?” She enquired to a man of modest size lounging on a bench munching on a sandwich. With a slightly puzzled look the man swallows hard, with an audible gulp. “Wars coming, the old bastard just wants everything 100%, so no body dies cause he missed something that could be of consequence.” He burps mid sentence, then stops himself, realizing he’s talking to the ships CO. “Ma’am!” He stammers suddenly. “Aren’t we all.” She says quietly, more to herself than to the man. His foot slips from his perch on the desk and he sits up straighter. “Gonzalez, ma’am, I’m being buzzed. Someone in HR, is looking for you, ma’am.” He squirms awkwardly under her glare. “If they ping you again tell them I’m on my way presently.” With a last glance around the shop she marches off to the large environmental doors, and walks the ships main artery to find a lift back up to the HR decks nearer the bridge.

The yellow walls in the hall are a stark contrast to the dull matte greys of the rest of the Jolene Roger. “Commanding Officer! Gonzalez!” Shouts a petite woman dressed in a matching yellow jumpsuit. “I thought you’d get here about an hour ago, but I’m now late for my next stop. Walk with me if you would be so kind.” Shrieks the petite woman down the wide yellow hall. “As you well know we have a VIP crew member to deliver to the admiral. I am most excited! Follow me, we’ll take the Express elevators over to the receiving decks to grab him.” She hardly stops talking long enough to draw a breath before she starts in on all the details, gossip and news about the new crew coming aboard. The pressure change in the ears can be felt as the elevator rockets around the ship in a convoluted manner, avoiding major portions of infrastructure inside the guts of the vessel. After several tense seconds as their weight, and gravity swapped positions relative to how they boarded the lift, they came to rest at a wide open floor, with stacks of crates, luggage, and fresh food stuffs in waxed boxes. Standing alone in the center of the room is a man in a beige jumpsuit, with tools and harness glinting in the harsh light of the scanners and sensors that litter the room. “Here he is!” The little woman squeals excitedly. Running off ahead out of the lift towards the man. Gonzalez watches in disbelief as the petite woman runs ahead leaving her standing alone in the lift. Walking over to the two the CO extends a crisp salute, and offers her hand in welcoming. “Welcome aboard Ghost.” She says stiffly. “Oh don’t be silly, let me introduce you!” She vibrates in her excitement. “No need for the fuss.” The man in beige says. “Ma’am.” He salutes back with a rigorous audible snap to his elbow, palm and fingers. “I’m Mark Garneau, at your service.” He bows extravagantly.

Part Thirty One: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

Day 95!

I realize as I write this that we are NOT 95 days into the new year (2022). As I started the writing streak early on in the winter break as I was getting antsy with how few posts I had made in 2021, compared to 2020. And I thought I could goose the numbers with a slew of posts late in the year. A real procrastinators move. Not that I thought I could publish a years worth of content, stories and nonsense in two weeks, but I gave it the old college try anyway. And then I just kept on going. At first I was thinking that if I hit a twenty one day streak, I’d be happy, then it was fifty days, then seventy five, and now that I’m close to one hundred, I think I’ll keep going regardless. I like the habit of taking a break in the day, or morning to write a quick post. Sometimes funny, sometimes absurd, and sometimes I will touch off on a rant, or explore my options on the creative writing front. I enjoy it. Getting the short daily post out tends to prime my brain for more complex thinking, and I can hone in on a new chapter. I am sure the streak will end on an innocuous note, as I just forget to post on a busy day, and go back to day one. I’ll either be kicking myself, or I will not give a shit. 50/50 it goes either way. In the meantime, I’m a few days from hitting one hundred. This is the best year my blog has ever had for views, eyeballs and traffic in general. I tried to turn off ads, but I have to upgrade beyond my current upgrade for the option, and I’m not interested in more money leaving my account. But you with the Ad Blockers, you do you. I don’t care. In the near decade I’ve run this site I’ve made 5 cents off of ads, so it’s not exactly taking food out of my kids mouths, so – yeah.

On the story front – What have we learned so far? The Company has seemingly cured 4000 troops via a Nanotech software upgrade. UB313 and the evil Doctor have several weapons and hidden tricks ready and waiting for the approaching company fleet. The somewhat Alien ship ‘K’, and its ambulatory spokesperson Katayna have come out of their data processing hang up, but can’t view their sensor data logs in chronological order. Have found several items of note, some are random, others are just plain strange like the discovery of plans and out going messages regarding a trans-dimensional For E’s engine. Racquelle is alive and well, though she ate desiccated human remains she found, unknowingly, and was not aware a war had started between her evil doctor boss and The Company as a whole. Learning out of the blue that a flotilla of large ships were a few weeks away from Pluto/Charon’s orbit, with vengeance on their minds.

So all out war is coming, and things are looking perilous for all involved. Stay tuned and follow along, as we finish the last chunk of Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

You talk a lot of shit for a guy who still has both of his ears.

The final friday of March break is here, which means that yesterday was St. Patrick’s day, and I forgot to have even a single alcoholic beverage in celebration. But what I did do was spend enough time outside that I gave myself a bit of a sunburn in all that warm sunshine as the temperatures climbed up beyond 18 degrees Celsius. I did wear a hat though, so small victory for my head, if not my exposed pale day walker skin. Today is my eldest nephews sixteenth birthday, so Happy Canal Bypass Day spud. He was a tent ripper, a drywall smasher, a guardrail buster, a C- Section baby. If I recall. Any exit but the clearly marked door type, if you catch my drift.

Had a very busy work week, which means invoices to go out and get paid, but also means I worked a lot while my kids were home and off school, and had to pass on a few fun activities with them. But, if we are saving to go to a Disney Resort in another year or two, I’ll need to earn more in order to save for the trip, and cover my usual expenses. So it’s best if I have a steady stream of work, even at inopportune times, because the end goal is a fun family experience, and spending cash to enjoy food, drinks and other activities not covered by park admission tickets.

Plus by the time we actually get to travel internationally who knows what the currency exchange rate is going to be, so saving is worth my while at this point. Since (1.) I haven’t gone anywhere in two years, (2.) we haven’t spent our travel budget on anything. (3.) the home DIY projects were all fairly inexpensive as I have a lot of my own tools, and paint, sand paper and clear coat for exterior wood isn’t break the bank expensive for a deck our size; read – tiny.

Do you celebrate this, the holiest of days? It’s tree chopping day here at the ranch!

It does what it says on the tin. All hands on deck for chopping down three large problematic trees here on the grounds. They are dying, dead or dangerous to be under. Safety gear abounds. Chainsaws have had blades sharpened. Axes at the ready. Ropes and pulleys and come alongs are at hand. It’s a great day of the year. I will pray for you and your kin. Take the utmost care. Peace be with ye. And also with you.

Update: the fourth man is an hour late in getting here so much of the work has ground to a halt. A more involved breakfast was proposed, and we are following through with that course of action.

Work notification is turned on for the tree work, and the rest period required afterward. I will be back to paid work tomorrow. If my hands aren’t too tired perhaps I will tackle a new chapter today aswell. Possible. Potentially. Maybe.

“Do you honestly believe me to be stupid?”

Roars doctor Jang furiously into the receiver. His voice reverberates off of the hewn rock walls of the hidden comm’s alcove. “I’m not that fucking dense you bastards. I have ample defenses, both here on the base, with our trained tactical operatives, even the regular administrative staff of UB313 have combat training. I have my private special forces, plus something extra I had been working on concurrently with my genetics program. So no Mr Jones, I am not going to run this operation into the ground. I have The Company right where I expect them to be, and in so doing, am pushing ahead with a rather important expansion that will take us towards my goal of interstellar travel.” He growls through gritted teeth, his tone a seething hiss full of poison and skin rotting venom. To the uninitiated he would look nonplussed, to those who know him well, they would be running for the closest air lock to escape his wrath, and punitive tendencies.

“Well, good doctor, need I not remind you how many billions we have wrapped up in your projects, and our exoplanet colonization goals. Don’t fuck this up, or I’ll have you eating your own body parts in a universally broadcast cooking show, for my pleasure.” With an audible click the line goes dead. Not just disconnected but dead – dead. The thick glass of the orange yellow bulb is fizzling with smoke, as the whole terminal is fried at doctor Jang’s feet. The long range communications terminal now a molten slag pile which is now untraceable, and entirely unusable. Pulling the receiver from his ear he slams it repeatedly against the now blisteringly hot and oozing slag pile. The only thing connecting doctor Jang to his black market sources of credit will now be nearly impossible to recover even if the base becomes over run, or briefly gets taken by the forces of The Company. All of the internal memory, chips and sensors have been scorched beyond recognition. The base, and by extension Doctor Jang and his people are cut off and alone. A simple gesture which says “you’re on your own.”

“I didn’t come out all this fucking way, so some oligarch prick could second guess my every move and question my genius. Fuck you Jones!, and fuck you good.” Jang bellows. “When everything comes together you shall not get anything from me. Cock sucking fucking mother-fucker!” He shouts, adding emphasis with finger pointing and fist pumps in the air. Straightening his clothes, and fixing his glasses in place on his face, he readies himself to leave the sound proof alcove hidden on the UB313 bridge facility. Stepping out of the alcove with a whisper of smoke and the smell of burnt wiring doctor Jang walks along a short hall that is obscured from the bridge by a cut through made from hewn rock. If you were to look right at it from the center of the bridge, it appears to be an unbroken wall of grey yellow rock. But once you step through it you briefly interrupt the illusion of a straight wall.

Much of UB313 is built this way. With twists and turns, dead ends, and stairs that lead nowhere. Unless you are well worn being aboard you don’t venture out to no places without planning on dying. It helps to curtail snooping, spying and people generally being nosy. On more than one occasion the doctor has gone on a walk about only to stumble over a dehydrated and mostly frozen corpse of someone who likely got turned around and lost in the maze of tunnels, stair walls and hidden passages. Orientation here leads through the medical bay and directly to where you will work. Being an untrusting sociopath with psychotic tendencies he likes his staff to remain silo’d into separate cells. No one knows everything, and there are few friends intermingled between departments. Life here is full on tension and suffering, just the way he likes it. People give him their best work or they disappear. Very few threads left behind in the black ops insurgency that doctor Jang heads up on UB313.

“One can only surmise from the flurry of activity from our benefactors that something, or someone is on there way here. This is it, ladies and gentlemen of UB313. The fight has come to us, as expected. Though we do not, as of yet have the asset under our control, I assume it will only be a matter of time before it is. So sound the alarm! We are to move to pre-battle ready schedules. No exterior sorties unless authorized, no R&R leaves, and turn up the sensitivity on all of our sensor arrays, antennas and scopes. They should be about two to three weeks of high velocity travel distance from us by now. Turn on the sentries if you would, please.” Croons the now giddy and flushed red doctor. “Uh, sir? The sentries? What are those sir?” Asks a man whose face is obscured by a low hanging monitor. “Oh right! I forget just how much I do around here myself. It’s a bit of a surprise really.” Laughs the doctor heartily.

Part Thirty: Ghost of the Dirty Starling

In the absence of sense

All eyes turn to you, and all the wonderful, exhilarating things you do. We can’t help but stand aside and watch. Hands tied in such polite company.

Poetry is not my forte, though I have read a number of collected works, but they were all written by a drunken degenerate, and womanizer. Though the writing, apart from the writer, was interesting and made me think. That’s a real skill that is, to separate the artist from the artwork.

Chat later, kids are on a rampage!